A Current Affair

Life in Scottsville, Va., has always been tightly connected to the James River. Today, that means tubing, boating and swimming. (Stephanie Gross - Steohanie Grosstwp)

Then-Mayor Raymon Thacker determined to stay put and scored government funding for the levee, completed in 1989. It saved Scottsville, Phipps says as we walk along the embankment, an attraction unto itself. "Now people are coming back downtown."

He walks us through a historic district of churches and houses that University of Virginia architecture students come to study. On Harrison Street, we run into his wife, Trish Phipps, and two other Scottsvillians.

"Y'all havin' a party?" a local calls out hopefully, driving by in a van. Scottsville may be changing, but it hasn't lost its country charm.

Our tour concludes on Valley Street, the main drag, in front of a building with the James's various flood levels marked on its face; Hurricane Agnes reached the second story. "It really is scary," Phipps says, staring up.

We continue our river education at the one-room Scottsville Museum. Outside, the Valley Street sidewalks are busy with patrons seated around patio tables at down-home joints like Minor's Diner.

Our base is the High Meadows Vineyard Inn, a bed-and-breakfast that dates to 1832. In Scottsville style, the innkeeper recounts its history for guests. The place looks like an unremarkable weathered home from the parking lot, but a closer inspection of the Victorian and Federal wings explains its landmark status.

It's Sunday before we actually baptize ourselves in the river. For nearly three decades, James River Runners has been getting visitors on the water. Bused upstream and launched, customers float or paddle back down at their preferred pace in the vessel of their choice -- inner tube, raft, canoe or kayak.

Co-owner Jeff Schmick has his own Scottsville stories to share, mostly of the James's glory years and the aftermath. He pulls a cannonball from a shelf and plops it down on his ledger, a war artifact he found on this very waterfront property.

We move to his truck, our rental kayaks in back, bumping along rustic roads as he jerks gears. Schmick, with a beard and booming voice, talks us through the floods, providing a firsthand account that beats any exhibit.

At our put-in spot, he can tell with a glance that the river level hovers around three feet -- about two feet below normal but perfect for a leisurely paddle.

Finally afloat, we shout greetings to groups of gangly kids and chummy students. Better than the people watching, though, are the surroundings. In full flourish, the banks shimmer in green. We can peer through the shallow water to the bottom, helping us steer clear of rocks.

A final stretch of rushing rapids brings us back to town, near the old ferry and where river and town continue their long lives together.

"I think as long as people like ourselves are here," Schmick says, "we'll take care of the river."